Vignettes of Truth
by kittykatloren
Summary: He smiled at her as he slipped the warm cloak over his shoulders. Somehow, he could feel her presence around him; it was warm and friendly on his tired shoulders. Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks; 5-part series of drabbles.
1. I

**A/N: **So even though the Harry Potter series is my favorite series and are my favorite books in the whole wide world I've never written fanfic on them. Don't know why, I just haven't felt it - probably because I don't think there's any way I can do JKR's world justice. But, in my 20th reread (no joke) I was finally hit my some inspiration for my favorite couple, Lupin and Tonks.

So here is a series of short, kind of vague drabbles, all about them, because I love them so and their relationship is incredibly intense. As always, please read and review, I love to hear what you think.

This will be a four-part series of drabbles, so expect more ASAP. They're chronological and in very specific settings, many scenes from the book, and so I hope you can figure it out. I never mention their names outside of dialogue/thoughts on purpose, in case you were wondering, but I hope it's still clear who I'm talking about.

**Disclaimer:** Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me.

* * *

_i._

"Oh, Merlin's beard – damn it!"

Tumbling head over heels over the tiniest possible corner of upturned carpet, she was saved from a painful landing by the strong arms of a man she knew well, who grinned when she slammed into him. His arms were quite warm and steady around her.

"You can never be left alone for even a moment, can you?"

"Can it, Remus."

But, straightening, she hugged him briefly in thanks. Perhaps a moment late, he seemed to realize he was still holding her in his arms, and immediately he pulled away with a claim of some important task left unfinished. Alone in the drawing room, she watched sadly as his cloak whipped out of the room.

* * *

_ii._

She bit her lip across the tiny table, where a miniature game of wizard chess had been set up. Scratching her head, she directed a knight near her opponent's king, which promptly threw down its crown and bowed shamefacedly.

"I win! Finally!"

"I let you have that one."

"No way! I fought for that!"

The careworn man only smiled and shrugged. As he stared around the dull, dusty room, his eyes fell on the large tapestry on the far wall, full of scripted names and small, circular black marks. The woman glanced at it too, her expression one of utmost distaste.

"I'm glad I'm not on that foul tree. I'd hang myself from its branches if I were."

"I'm certainly glad you're not, then. It'd be rather dull around here without you."

* * *

_iii._

"Happy birthday, Remus!"

She held out a sloppily wrapped gift, grinning cheerily. With a somewhat sad smile, he took it and unwrapped it as she sat down in a nearby chair, her elbows resting on a rickety endtable, watching him eagerly. When all the sparkly paper at last fell away, a long, dark cloak flowed into his arms, thick and silken.

But the stitching was a mess: knotted and uneven, it wove along in zigzagging lines and in a few places, there was already a patch over some unintended hole. Stuck to one corner was a tiny note. He unfolded it and read nothing more than _All my love, Tonks_, with a small star sketched in one of the corners. The handwriting was slanted and messy, like a child's.

"I know you don't really need any more shabby cloaks… but I made it by hand! Needles and thread and all, no magic, after I bought the cloth! Sorry it was wrapped so terribly. I've never been able to do that well, magic or no."

He smiled at her. Slipping the warm cloak over his shoulders, he kept her note clutched carefully in his hand, hidden from her sharp eyes. Somehow, he could feel her presence in the cloak; it was warm and friendly on his tired shoulders.

"It's wonderful. Thanks so much, Tonks."

"No problem!"

He waited until she had bounced out of her seat, hugged him briefly, then left the room before he looked at the note in his hand again. He studied the tiny star doodled in the corner and the four small, insignificant, hastily scrawled words before placing the note gently in his pocket.

His eyes fell on the tall family tree when he looked up. Her name was blasted off, but there was still a date of birth underneath where her name would have been. _December 2__nd__, 1973._

Thirteen long years seemed to separate him from the tapestry, though he was only a few paces away. Thirteen years, somehow growing longer and lonelier with every passing second.


	2. II

_iv._

She knew that it was snowing outside, but not because of any wide windows or rush of icy air through an open door. No, she knew because of the soft white powder glittering on the shoulders of the man before her. It had settled in his hair and the untidy scruff on his cheeks, making him look as if he had finally lost the last of his dusky brown hair.

Stepping forward, she brushed some of the snow off his head and shoulders before resting her hand on his cheek. Between scars, stubble, and snow, his face felt rough and cold, the lonely snowflakes melting icily into her palm. She cast her eyes at the ground only once before meeting his, her heart beating wildly.

"Remus, what would you do if I told you I loved you?"

His eyes flashed with suppressed emotion; a second later, they were as coolly gray as ever.

"I would – I would say that you would be better off to love someone else. To love someone who can provide for you, who is young, who is – safer."

"What if I said I didn't want to love anyone else? What if I said I didn't care about any dumb dangers?"

"Perhaps I would tell you – that you are being foolish."

Her heart jumped. Impulsively she grabbed his shirt and pulled his lips her hers, determined to make him realize – to make him _feel_ – what she was trying to tell him, because he didn't seem to understand her words. His lips were as soft as the snow in his hair.

And when – for a split second – his hands wrapped comfortingly around her waist, she fully forgot about such silly things as the snow, her pounding heart, and her whirling mind.

* * *

_v._

"I would do anything to keep you save and alive. The farther you are from me, the better off you will be. I would sacrifice anything for that. My happiness, my love - "

"What about _my_ happiness?"

With one fist still buried in the castle wall where he had punched it to try and help relieve his conflicted emotions, he met her eyes squarely, seeing so very clearly the intense determination behind the wild despair. His heart twisted violently in his chest.

"Even that. If you are safe, then - "

"Shut up, Remus Lupin. Shut up!"

She took a step towards him, her hand open and raised dangerously near his face, but she suddenly seemed too furious to speak, her eyes glimmering with tears. For a moment they both stood frozen, despite the heat emanated from their bodies in waves.

"Are you really that selfish? Do you not realize what has just happened, what's still coming? Remus, you can't… you can't do this!"

And then, without warning, her hand dropped, and she collapsed into him, as if the entire weight of the battle and its aftermath was on her shoulders and hers alone. She cried into his shirt, silently, and he embraced her tightly, all of a sudden unable to resist in spite of everything he had ever said.

"Perhaps… we can come to a compromise."

"Remus… I – I'd like that…. Thank you."

* * *

_vi._

"You're – you're getting married, Dora?"

"Yes! To – to Remus Lupin. I've told you about him. He's been in the Order from the start. He's wonderful."

Her father's eyes flashed all of a sudden, and he traded a significant glance with the woman beside him, whose expression was an odd mix of fear and distaste, though she was trying to hide it behind false joy.

"Remus Lupin, Dora – that's marvelous. I'm – so happy for you."

"You don't look so happy, Mum, Dad."

Her parents traded another loaded glance; each one incensed her a little bit more. They didn't seem to understand at all. Her father was the one who spoke first, meeting her eyes rather bravely.

"When you say he was in the Order from the start – doesn't that make him at least ten years older than you, Dora? And… didn't he hurt you, before? You were so miserable, for ages…. And – and he's a – well…"

"A _what_, exactly?"

"He's a werewolf, Dora! Do… do you think your mother and I want you marrying a werewolf?"

She slammed her glass down on the table and rose to her feet. Her parents looked shocked; she was sure the fury boiling inside her must be etched dreadfully clearly onto her face. She couldn't stand it anymore. Her words were vicious, like a hiss of leaking potion, when she spoke.

"My own parents. I knew most people out of the Order would react like this – but I never guessed _you_ would. You don't know him! All you know is what the world says about people like him! And I'm sick and tired of it, sick and tired, and I know I'll have to put up with it the rest of my life but _I_ _don't_ _care_. I love him. So thank you for squealing in delight like every mother should, Mum, thank you for the well wishes, thank you for saying you'll walk me down the aisle, Dad. I appreciate it!"

With that, she stormed away, slamming each door she went through and breaking a glass vase by the entryway. She paused right before she stepped over the threshold into the warm summer breeze. But she didn't hear her mother's sniff, didn't see her father's wide eyes and open mouth, and didn't understand their murmured apology. She whirled across the doorway a soft swish of robes.


	3. III

_vii._

Staring blankly into her pocket mirror, she concentrated until she no longer recognized herself, until she was a nobody, a flat-nosed, dark-haired, and patchy-skinned woman who had nothing to worry about except how far she could run from this unfamiliar house that had once been her home. She ran until her feet ached from pounding again, again, and again against hard sidewalks.

But when she collapsed on a bench, miles away, she was too distracted to notice that, quite a while later, a man sat down beside her. It didn't matter, for she looked like no one. She _was_ no one. She stared into her palms, the cold metal of her wedding ring icy against her cheek.

She needed to let it out, she wanted to scream, to cry.

"I know it's you, you know."

The voice was calm and kind. When she looked up, she looked directly into the eyes of the one person she had been trying so hard to forget for just a split second. The memory of his name on her parents' scornful lips drove piercing stake through the most vulnerable corner of her heart.

"I can tell by the way you're sitting. You always sit with your head titled like that. And your hands on your knees. And your back straight, but your shoulders forward."

As he spoke, she became aware of each part of her body existing exactly as he had described. Her mouth fell open, and she intended to say something to him, to explain what happened, to ask him for reassurance that she knew did not really exist.

He understood, cupped her chin in his hands, and kissed her before letting her spill her soul at last, curled safe in his arms.

* * *

_viii._

Her cloak slipped off her shoulders first. On this, their wedding night, there existed, somehow, an unspoken agreement that they would let none of their inhibitions interfere, an agreement never consciously acknowledged but nevertheless as binding as an Unbreakable Vow. In return to his advances, she pushed off his robes and pulled at his belt, her body inches from his in the inky darkness. Feverish, breathless, they didn't stop moving until only their skin pressed against each other, hot between chilly air and soft lips. Her touch was like alcohol to him; it tweaked and twisted his senses until he was full of nothing but desire, freeing him of every inhibition. He pressed her against the wall as he kissed her, hard and demanding.

And she responded with nothing less than he gave her. Her hand swept over his scarred skin like a ghost and explored the lines of his rough, unshaven face. She breathed like she was either excited or enthralled, or both.

Tangling his hands in her short, pink hair, he let his heart and body carry him away from the labyrinthine trap in his head. He could hear her soft moans, feel her muscles shift under his rough palms, see her pale skin glow in the night and her eyes gleam darkly like a silver moon.

It was all too easy to lose control.

* * *

_ix._

When she stumbled off the broom in the backyard of the Burrow, all he could think was _please, please, let her be safe, let her be unharmed –_

When she crashed into his arms, her whole body was trembling, and he himself wasn't any steadier, either. But once he had satisfied himself that she was whole and unharmed, all his misgivings began to cloud his heart again, terrifyingly bleak, manifesting themselves in anger…

When her eyes filled with tears at the news of her mentor's death, all he could do was hold her hand because others expected him to, for his heart was too cold to offer any other comfort.

* * *

_x._

He stood alone in the pounding rain, the icy droplets stinging his dirty face like sleet; they might have _been_ sleet; he didn't know and he didn't care. All he wanted was the cold the cold and the pain.

All he _deserved_ was pain. The gradually numbing shock provided a distraction of the awful fire that raged inside him.

Her words ricocheted around his like, like wind chimes, only each one did not cause a twinkle of garden-like beauty, but rather a harsh dissonance like the jolting, high-pitched squeal of metal against metal.

_We're going to have a baby, Remus. We're going to have a baby!_

Her face alight, her smile radiant, her eyes glowing. And the joyous leap in his heart was instantly smothered by the terrible truth, and he had to leave, he _had_ to, he could not comprehend – no, he didn't _want_ to comprehend, he could not accept it - what he'd done to her, to his child – his _child_ –

He stood alone in the pounding rain, the icy droplets masking the tears sliding down his dirty face. He collapsed to the ground, biting back a scream, fisting his hands over his eyes. He hardly noticed the sharp rocks digging into his thin, worn robes, making him bleed. He had to leave, go far away, now, before he did any more harm to her. Every second he spent beside her endangered her, and now, the baby. Their child.

_What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?_

* * *

_xi._

In his haste, in his rage at the young man with so much on his mind, he had forgotten to knock, forgotten to tell her that he was coming home that night, forgotten to stay alert as he entered the house. Exhausted after so long away, he dropped his things unceremoniously on the floor and turned to the stairs, rubbing his forehead wearily, trying to make sense of his own decision.

But as soon as he opened his eyes he found himself face-to-face with someone shadowed in darkness. A steady wand was pointed straight at his heart. The mysterious stranger forced him backwards a step, and came into the pale lamplight.

It was none other than his wife, her hair a dull shade of purple and pulled back in a long ponytail, but her eyes were still as sharp and piercing as always. As soon as she recognized him, her eyes widened, but the wand did not waver.

"When was the first time I kissed Remus Lupin?"

"January of two years ago, at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, in the drawing room."

Only then did the wand fall. She threw her arms around her husband, holding him tight, just as he rubbed her comfortingly on the back and murmured soft words and apologies into her ear. His hands moved of their own accord to tangle in her hair, to rest on her hips, to brush across the soft skin of her face, to feel every piece of her to make sure she was still safe and real. He barely realized that she was trembling and that there were tears falling over her fisted hands and onto the back of his tattered traveling cloak.

Despite all his efforts, his hands were shaking as he held her. He would never be able to forget the fierce fury and fear that had glittered in her eyes when she had looked him full in the face.

"I'm sorry, Tonks… I'm so sorry."


	4. IV

**A/N:** The last two oneshots are two different possibilities on the ending. One, obviously, where they die. The other is if they had lived through the battle, as I always wish they had. Also, in the first oneshot, I picture a transformed werewolf like an actual wolf, not the demented half-human thing the movies invented. And the dialogue in the first shot is taken directly from JKR's _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

* * *

_xii._

Moonlight streamed through the thin window like a stage's spotlight, filling the bedroom with an eerie, secluded sort of light. Two shadowy figures lay at the foot of an old queen-sized bed. One of them had short, spiky hair and neat features; her belly was round with child. The other shape appeared to be doglike and curled in a ball on the ragged carpet.

The woman with spiky hair raised a book in one hand and tilted it towards the moonlight. Her other hand gently patted the ears of the large, furry, dusk-colored wolf that sat beside her. On the floor, an empty potion bottle rolled slowly back and forth; in the corner, a bubbly potion steamed and fizzed quietly. Her voice was as soft as the stars when she spoke.

"The three witches and the knight set off down the hill together, arm in arm, and all four led long and happy lives, and none of them ever knew or suspected that the Fountain's waters carried no enchantment at all."

The wolf made a tiny noise and sat up straight, almost as tall as the seated woman. Two pairs of eyes met – one pair wide and cheerful and green, with round pupils and a smile; the other pair dark and narrow and unreadable.

The woman grinned, leaned forward, and kissed the wolf's graying muzzle before turning the page in the old book and reading the next story by the full moon's pervasive glow.

* * *

_xiii._

His hands rested over her round belly, waiting, waiting. After many tries, after so much waiting, he finally felt it. He felt their baby kick, proof that he was alive, somehow; true, undeniable proof that he was _theirs_, he was strong, he would survive.

And when he was born, his mother's body trembled with exhaustion but her gaze was bright with joy. His father's arms shook when he took his son into his arms for the first time. The baby yawned, but didn't cry; the baby mumbled, but didn't scream.

The little boy's hair turned bright blue all of a sudden, and his mother laughed. Such a warm wave of relief crushed over the boy's father that he swayed where he stood and had to sit down, holding his child close to his heart.

* * *

_xiv (1)._

Like whispers on the wind, she felt something in her heart change, so vividly perceptible even through the whirlwind of curses and fear flying around her. Some part of her vanished, some that ripped her heart in two as it went, stabbed at her soul, tore at every part of her –

There was a man, a tall, dark, hooded man with his wand drawn, laughing cruelly. Someone in front of him was falling in a graceful arc. Time slowed, then stopped completely. The man she loved stared at her, one final expression of shock and determination sketched permanently onto his rough features.

Her heart shattered. No, no, _no_, she thought, it couldn't be – _no_ – disjointed, faded images Remus and Teddy flashed in her mind's eye –

And then none of it mattered. Something brushed against her back like a bird's wing. She saw his formerly vibrant eyes – fleetingly, full of dead emotion – and then knew nothing more until she opened her eyes to the stillness.

* * *

_xiv (2)._

Bodies lay strewn carelessly throughout the hall, so many that he couldn't bear to look. His eyes, unconsciously, were seeking one shape, one face, one person. It nearly made him retch, to have his eyes continuously drawn to the still shapes on the floor.

And then he saw a shock of pink. Without thinking he began to run, running until he reached that bright light – her hair – she was standing, swaying –

He caught her just as she stumbled. There was a long, bleeding cut on one of her arms, but she saw him, her eyes lit up like her hair and she let out a weak laugh, struggling to her feet and throwing her arms around him.

The meaning of his tears changed with every second after that. He cried when he kissed her, feeling hot tears on her cheeks, too. He cried when he saw dead children, dead families, dead friends. He cried when he watched her tremble. He cried when he saw some of the others, safe, even if no longer quite whole.

But he cried the most hours later. Though silent, he couldn't stop the tears streaming down his scarred skin when he returned to his son, held him in his arms, and felt his tiny heart beat like a steady drum as the boy slept, each pound a reminder of why they had fought, why they had risked so much, and why they had won.


End file.
